Moments later, I found myself with a lump in my throat, grieving Scott - remembering the absolute silence when I put my ear to his chest after his last breath. Remembering how he struggled to breathe with tumor-laden lungs during his last weeks and months. Feeling at once grateful and guilty for my own easy breaths and strong heart. Remembering my intention to appreciate the heart sounds every time I auscultate a patient's chest.
To hear heartbeats is a gift.
To hear heartbeats is a gift.
The grief felt good; I haven't cried for Scott in a while, and the ache feels like a visceral reminder of our love for each other. The lump in my throat, the tightness in my chest, the furrow in my forehead, the tears in my eyes. Love incarnate. (I remember Scott using "incarnate" in his economics dissertation. It was unexpected but accurate, and the word still makes me think of him.)
Later, I was wondering why the grief popped up when it did. And then I remembered that in our wedding vows, Scott and I promised to listen to each others' heart beats. And then I realized that today is our 10-year wedding anniversary. Aha! It all makes sense. To make things better, I got an out-of-the-blue text from my friend Craig, who might best be described as my widowhood doula. Who better to connect with at this time? How kind of the Universe (or Scott... or whoever) to send him my way.
One of my favorite things about this episode is its similarity to what happened one morning in 2014 when three-year-old Clark asked me, out of nowhere, if he could hear his dad's heartbeat. Only later that night did I realize that he'd asked that question on our five-year wedding anniversary. I told Clark then, and I continue to tell him now, that even though we can't see him, his dad still loves us. And I still love Scott.
